Sword of Allah

by David Rollins

  Indeed, there’d been absolutely no communication between her and Tom since she’d called the engagement off, and yet she did feel different about things. In some ways, she was now even more confused. Was it just because she missed Tom painfully and was prepared to compromise her own beliefs to be with him? Or had her experiences both in Sydney and Darwin changed some fundamental beliefs? She didn’t want a husband who came home in a body bag rather than in a Volvo. I read the headlines. I don’t want a husband who makes them. A husband was a man you sat on the couch with, did grocery shopping with, had children with. A man like her own father. The trouble was that now, after Darwin, she wondered whether a man like her father – a sports store retailer – would ultimately bore her. She’d experienced the raw adrenalin rush of stepping into the danger zone. Because of that, she believed she understood Tom much better than she ever had in the past.

  And since she’d called it quits with Tom, her career path had taken a detour. She didn’t have to be a newsreader, tied to a desk in the one place. She could get out amongst the big stories, do pretty much whatever she pleased, go wherever she wanted to go, cover the issues that mattered. Darwin had been frightening, but it had also been exhilarating. To her surprise, she’d handled herself well. And if there was no reconciliation for her and Tom, well, that sort of life would certainly take her mind off the man she loved, wouldn’t it?

  ‘Belle.’

  Annabelle smiled while she shuffled her notes into a folder. Now she was even hearing his voice.

  ‘So…are you going to sit there in the dark all night?’ said Wilkes.

  ‘Tom?’ She didn’t know what to do, to run into his arms or be cool. ‘Tom, I…’

  Wilkes walked onto the set, into what little light there was, even now not really knowing what he was going to say. He missed her so much it ached. He’d asked her to marry him in the first place because he wanted to demonstrate to her how much she meant to him, to lift their relationship to a higher level. But rather than making things even better, the proposal had had the opposite effect. They’d had it all, and now they had, what? Nothing?

  Annabelle looked amazing, her blue dress reflecting the colour of her eyes. She was so beautiful, his memory of her never did the reality justice. He breathed the air filled with her scent, and considered at that moment leaving the army to be with her, if that was what she wanted.

  Annabelle stood and walked towards him, wanting to throw her arms around him and feel his strength, but she resisted the impulse.

  ‘I wanted to see you, probably shouldn’t have, but you know me – danger’s my middle name,’ Wilkes said, trying hard to be as relaxed as possible. He rubbed the top of his head with the flat of his hand.

  Annabelle watched him – that gesture – and knew he was as nervous as she was. ‘No, Tom. Dorkface is your middle name.’

  ‘I saw you in Darwin. On television. What were you doing there? I thought you were in Sydney.’

  ‘Sydney wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. They’ve given me a new job.’

  ‘Back here? Reading the news again?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘When I saw you in Darwin, in the chemical suit, I was…’

  ‘Scared?’

  ‘Yeah, scared.’

  ‘You? That turns the tables a bit,’ she said.

  He nodded. ‘I guess it does.’

  ‘Tom, I’ve learned a few things about myself lately, about us.’

  ‘I didn’t think there was an us,’ he said.

  Annabelle looked into Tom’s eyes. This was the moment of decision – for her and for him. Was it possible, or even desirable, to go back to the relationship the way it was, a never-ending series of breathless hellos and goodbyes, intensely sexual and passionate on one hand, but empty on the other? They were apart so much, she wasn’t even aware of any bad habits he might have, aside from the usual leaving-the-seat-up problem that men universally had. Perhaps the very thing she resented and feared, his deployment to dangerous and secret places, was also the spice that kept their relationship fresh and alive. In a husband, she wanted a man who would keep her excited, yet also be dependable. Were ‘exciting’ and ‘dependable’ mutually exclusive? Could Tom ever be that man? She’d once asked him to make a choice – her or the regiment. That wasn’t fair. Or was it?

  Tom read her silence as indecision. It hung over them uncomfortably. No, I guess there isn’t…‘Belle,’ he began, the words occurring to him as he spoke, ‘one of us would have to give up a big part of themselves to be with the other. The army is all I know, all I’ve ever known. If I leave it, will I still be the man you’ve loved? Will I still be me?’ As Tom heard himself speak, the less he was convinced by his own argument, but it was better than being hurt again, told that he didn’t measure up. ‘And what about you? Could you honestly do without all this?’ He looked around the studio.

  Annabelle’s eyes filled with tears, because suddenly she was no longer confused. The last couple of months – her experiences, her tangled emotions – had taught her a truth that suddenly became apparent. It wasn’t about money, or position, or her job. Her happiness, fulfilment – whatever she chose to call it – was simply about sharing her life with the man she loved. This man. She wanted to say, ‘Yes, Tom, I could if you could,’ but she also knew the truth she’d learned was something Tom would have to conclude for himself. So, instead, Annabelle said goodbye. ‘Tom, I’ll love you always.’

  Annabelle’s perfume swam in Tom’s brain. He wanted to hold her and tell her they’d just made the biggest mistake of their lives, but what would be the point of that? So, instead, he turned and walked away.

  Timor Sea

  The vast majority of Barrenjoey Island was barely an island at all, being really no more than a few sizeable heads of coral a hundred and fifty miles east of Ashmore Island that struggled above the waterline here and there, depending on the tide. The island’s shape was that of a horseshoe, broken in several places, allowing the sea to drain away as the tide dropped. At the base of this horseshoe was a small white sand beach and a handful of battered but resilient coconut palms that gave shelter to a small ecosystem. Occasionally, recreational sailing craft would venture carefully within the two arms of the enveloping horseshoe, drawn by the postcard perfection of the white sand beach, swaying palms and azure lagoon waters, following the warnings laid out on the charts to drop both bow and stern anchors. Fortunately, on this particular morning, the lagoon was empty of sailing craft.

  The sea currents had caught the enormous shoal and swirled it within the arms of the horseshoe, so that before the tide turned and the seawater began to drain from the reef, the lagoon glittered with the bloated white and silver bellies of tens of thousands of rotting fish. Several sharks would have been amongst them but, having no swim bladders, they sank to the bottom rather than floating to the surface when they died. Birds had joined the fish, and here and there desiccated feathers in various shades of black and white and grey bobbed amongst the silver, along with a dozen turtles and a small pod of dolphins.

  The tropical sun beat down relentlessly on the reef, going to work on the fish and the other dead creatures, breaking down the VX, cleaning up the mess with only the wind as its witness.

  Author’s note

  I began sketching the outline for this book on 12 September 2002. That date was, of course, a year and a day after the attacks on the World Trade Center in New York. It was hardly auspicious.

  This book is about gunrunning, drug smuggling, money laundering and terrorism. I was about five thousand words into it when the awful event known as the Bali bombing happened exactly a month later on 12 October 2002.

  When I write a book, I have the skeleton of the plot largely hammered out. The working title for Sword of Allah was originally, and eerily, Smoking Gun. I say ‘eerily’ because, if you remember, the term ‘smoking gun’ became the catch cry for the UN weapons inspectors as they hunted for WMD in Iraq prior to the war there.

  In separ
ate news stories through the year, a guy in New Zealand claimed that he could whip up an unmanned aerial vehicle using off-the-shelf technology and then set about building it (he has since been fined for doing so). Hamas and Hezbollah, a couple of groups in the Middle East not averse to violence, have joined forces on a number of ‘projects’, and Hamas has announced that it will soon be deploying its own drone. On 23 July 2003, Australian troops were deployed to the Solomon Islands, joining others from the Pacific region to help restore law and order there. When you read this book, this may sound a bit familiar.

  And then, on the afternoon of 6 August 2003, as I packaged up the manuscript to send to the publisher, came the news that the Marriot hotel in Jakarta had been struck by an explosive device. A contingent from the Australian Federal Police, in Bali for the trial of Amrosi, one of the Bali bombers, was sent to Jakarta to help the local authorities track down the culprits. America gave assistance too.

  What am I saying here? I’m not claiming that by writing this story I’m making bad things happen, but the coincidences have sure been eerie.

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